


Like a river flows surely to the sea

by veeraha



Category: Death Note
Genre: Bullying, DFAB Near, M/M, Minor Violence, on and off relationship, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:50:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veeraha/pseuds/veeraha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They were pitted against each other from the very first day, black and white can never coexist can it?<br/>It can, and it did, until it didn’t."</p><p>||||Meronia secret exchange fic written for Tumblr user Theeyeofthetigger||||</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a river flows surely to the sea

**Ivory-Now**

Have you ever had your ribs broken?

Near didn’t, until today that is.

The anatomy textbooks only tell you the details in black and white, ink and letters. It is as fulfilling as watching the shifting of the bones under the pale stretch of skin with every exhale without feeling it, touching it and visualizing the protective finger-like splay of the powder-ivory bones around the pulsing, vulnerable meat of the heart and the other soft things inside you that necessitate protection.

Delicate things being protected by a cage that is none the stronger, and it’s the same with every nameless, faceless body that walks around you, irrespective of whatever commanding and hardened personality they may carry around with themselves. The irony never fails to shock Near.

But then others rarely see what he sees: poetry in lines of numbers and figures, rhythm in the staccato ticking of a clock. The orderliness is music to his ears, soothing the frayed edges of his mind that are left gaping open and wounded each time he was to swim against the current into the world of the unknown. He thrives in harmony, blossoms in familiarity but what others see is just a set of practiced quirks.

‘Eccentricities of a genius’, they say.

How unfortunate is a child who’s been subjected to such a label at the age when he can barely understand the meaning of the word. But Mr. Wammy didn’t treat him like a prized asset, and for that Near is thankful. For once, he felt more at home at the sharp white, almost bare room that had been assigned to him at the House than he did at the lovingly decorated bedrooms of the foster homes he’d spend those first years of his life.

The other nurse is humming along to a familiar tune.

_La Dolores._

The spider-web connections of neurons shift automatically in response, and Near can almost feel the little bursts of chemicals and electricity race unbidden, colliding against the membranous walls of his brain, reaching in and pulling out memories in a fluid stream.

1999, the second foster home he’d been in three years: the kitchen had smelled of baked pumpkins and the children slept in one room, huddled against each other by the warmth of the fire. It would have been nice, orphans rarely get to experience such affection.

If only Near’s skin hadn’t crawled each time anyone attempted to touch him. The world used to seem infinitely more overwhelming back then: every sound grating, every smell suffocating, the scratch of the cheap fabric against his skin leaving it raw and seething and all he did was clamp his hands against his ears and slip into the cool, comforting darkness under the bed from where he wouldn’t budge for hours. The walls had been thin, and their neighbours were hard working people who didn’t mind sharing their meals with the hungry children next door.

Mrs. Sanchez loved the opera and Near remembers the swelling notes of it, ringing unchained in the night seeping through the hands he had clenched tightly around his ears with the hope that the quiet would bring him some relief.   

Here it is again, the nurse hums louder and her notes slip and slide unevenly over several octaves, Near’s hand itches at the discordant notes, reaching out unconsciously towards a lock of hair but the stab of pain in his ribs stun the breath out of him as he tries.

The blows hadn’t been gentle, there’s rarely anything more venomous than teenagers and their unbearable, testosterone –fuelled cruelty.

_Hormones._

_Testosterone._

Near remembers that first memory of those words. He was six and the fourth foster home he’d been in was that of a kindly Doctor and his wife. He had climbed on the table and pulled out all the books he had found on them, the words sinking into his mind like water dripped on sand and back then he thought it was magic. A potion concocted to keep you chained in your body.

_A girl will live as a girl and die as a girl._

That’s logic. That’s perfect symmetry, perfect order.

Near used to be different back then, long hair, pale eyelashes, delicate petal-soft skin.

 ~~ _She_~~ He had a name too: something virtuous, something pure. Something a mother would love to call her good little girl by, and Near has never been more glad that everything that tied him to that name had long since been destroyed, all those bridges burned down.

They dressed her up in lace and silk, pink ribbons and luminous pearls. But wasn’t beautiful because there wasn’t any order, any logic, any harmony in what he felt within, and what they saw from the outside.

One some days, she woke up feeling comfortable in her own skin, in the body she’d been born into.

And on other days, he’d wake up feeling trapped, the world tipped sideways, blood boiling in his veins at the sight of the soft, pretty things they’d want him to put on.

_She._

_He._

Near had stopped caring about those words by the time he’d arrived at Wammy’s. They’re for other’s convenience anyway, and even he won’t deny the overwhelming urge to put a label on everything and everyone, and he’d been labelled ‘girl’ as soon as he’d been born, destined to be pink and never blue.

So he chose to be white. 

Mr. Wammy didn’t care that the girl he’d brought didn’t look like a girl at all. Or that she chose to wear clothes that a boy would normally wear.

 

 ‘Near?’

Nurse Molly’s delicate measured whisper breaks through the haze of painkillers and he’d much rather be left in the company of his own mind but he nods in acknowledgment as she finishes dressing up his wounds.

‘Bring the other one in’, she orders as she fumbles quickly to slip the shirt over Near’s head, hiding his body from view as the other patient is brought in. Near appreciates the gesture, he does. He understands how this must all feel for them, addressing him as a boy when his body clearly shows otherwise. But Mr. Wammy had instructed them to be especially sensitive about Near’s needs, and inspite of that, they can barely contain their unsubtle curiosity around him.

_A girl will live as a girl and die as a girl._

And yet, he seems to break that rule every day, the ever constant anomaly.

He is his own chaos, and it’s a miracle how he manages to live with himself without coming apart at the seams.

_The chaos to his order._

_The black to his white._

The other patient is uncharacteristically quiet, a storm raging silently inside him, golden hair caked with dried blood, standing still as a statue as he leans heavily against the nurse and his labored breathing tastes as sweet as the fading strains of the opera Mrs. Sanchez loved so much.

Near will never understand that small, undeniable burn of want inside him that wants to reach out to him, hold him and ask him if he is okay, if he is hurt. But that is just his body talking, his bloodstream saturated with the wrong chemicals. ‘Love’ is a strange word that he’d underlined in the dictionary when he was just five. He still didn’t understand when it was uttered feverishly in his ears so many times before, by the same lips that lie pursed and split at the edge, leaking blood in front of him.

‘You don’t need to hide me from him’, Near tells Nurse Molly but it’s more of a declaration than anything.

‘He knows everything about me.’

 

* * *

 

**Onyx-Then**

Bookmarks are useless contraptions.

Mello never needed any and he smirks in disapproval as Linda snatches the chocolate wrapper from his hand and shoves it inside the book she’d been reading.

There’s no use in reading at all if you cannot immerse yourself in the words and Mello remembers everything. The feel of the paper, the soft ridges and bumps over its weathered surface, the way each letter loops itself into another and stringing them together unfurls pictures inside his mind.

He was born to read.

_Stories, clues, lies._

Christmas is still a week away, and L has returned after a case that ran the course of a month and the entire house seems to brighten up at his arrival. Dinner conversations are mostly bland since Mello has never shown any particular interest in the convoluted love lives of the others. Neither does Linda, he’s glad to note. She sits beside Matt, talking in hushed whispers to him while Mello flips through the case notes L had handed him as soon as he’d come downstairs for dinner.

It probably means something, maybe he’s finally seen what Mello is capable of and this is an acknowledgement.

But he looks around the table, L is lost in conversation with Mr. Wammy, and everyone else has busied themselves around them both, hanging onto every word L says. No one notices the empty seat at the table, at the obvious void that might as well be a glaring beacon.

‘Where’s he?’

Mello’s voice breaks midway, betraying every bit of concern he’d been hoping to hide.

A quiet falls over the table and there are hushed whispers, smirks at his mention.

Mello has heard what they talk about Near behind his back and that blinding, fiery wash of rage threatens to spill over and his knuckles are white from how tightly he grasps at the papers in his hand.

He can read it clearly in their demeanour. Those unwanted smirks disappear from their lips when his eyes fall on them.

They are afraid of him.                                  

‘He is upstairs’, Linda supplies and Mello scrapes his chair back with an audible screech. If they could read as well as he does, they’d know how his anger finds expression in such childish acts.

_I will never forgive you all for daring to deny his existence._

The words are silent and unspoken, but very much present and it leaves the entire House shaken and even L can’t grasp at the enormity of it all.

 

If Mello is made of the unforgiving rage of a hurricane, then Near is the anchoring, grounding reality of the rocks the storm crashes onto. Near’s bedroom is at the farthest corner of the House, separated from the rest but for whose benefit, no one can tell with certainty.

Social custom dictates he should knock, but Mello doesn’t care much for being polite when all he wants to do is break the jaws of those _things_ sitting with L downstairs and he all but breaks open Near’s door.

Near is sitting by the window, a heap of playing cards at his feet, the tower knocked down by Mello’s rude arrival.

‘I should have known. I could hear you stomping up the stairs’, he whispers softly and that sound tugs at something inside Mello. Something he’d tried to reason with and failed so many times.

‘Why aren’t you at dinner? L is there’, Mello pants and it’s inelegant, almost desperate but he also notes with a quiet sort of satisfaction that he doesn’t care.

‘I’ll have dinner sent up here when I’ll get hungry. What made you think I’d starve?’, and the taunt in his tone is subtle and biting and it’s overwhelming all of a sudden.

The realization is a quiet one, but not a surprise at all.

Mello loathes him.

But a single word like that isn’t enough to cover the smoke-ice-fire-acid spectrum of what Near makes him feel, and he all but collapses on the bed and curses whatever God he used to believe in as a child that makes tear prick in his eyes whenever he finds himself in situations like this.

‘Are you upset about what happened last week?’

‘Wouldn’t be wrong if I say I do Near. They weren’t in their right place to comment like that, when they don’t even know the full story..’

‘and they don’t need to know the full story’, Near completes the sentence, eyes fixed on the card tower he’s rebuilding.

Mello realizes he’s been statue-still holding his breath without even realizing it, giving Near the space he needs and it’s effortless, bone-deep, unconscious, like Near is an extension of his own self.

He can despise Near with his entire existence in one moment, and burn down everyone who dare harm him in the next, in this never ending dual existence that he tries so hard to keep to himself. But when they’re alone like this, Near is still his favourite book. One that he’d not understood at first read. But the words had grown around him, inside every hollow, every empty space in him and they’d existed side by side, orbits overlapping.

They were pitted against each other from the very first day, black and white can never coexist can it?

It can, and it did until it didn’t.

They had fallen in and out of each other’s arms, cursing and kissing and sometimes not speaking at all but just breathing against each other.

Near wasn’t used to being looked at so adoringly, like he was beyond what his body claimed he was. Mello was always attracted to fire and Near’s eyes were glowing embers that drew him like a moth to a flame. But the spun-glass delicate thing they had was too fragile for the endless heaving and pulling of world around them.

_L’s successors._

The world needed two brilliant minds, and that’s what it was given.

_M and N._

Always together, but never quite and that’s how they’d remained.

‘Get up’, his hands are outstretched and Near doesn’t reach out for it.

But Mello will only give up on the day he finally dies and he’s rummaging through the neatly folded pile of clothing in the drawers, pulling out socks and scarves and pulling them on Near’s feet and around his neck.

‘Come on’, he pulls at Near’s hand, pulling him out towards the door.

‘Let’s go down to the town and I’ll buy you hot chocolate.’

Near twists his arm away from Mello’s grasp with a harsh yank.

‘Don’t touch me without asking me first. I’m not going anywhere with you.’

His words cut at Mello’s skin like razors.

‘Near..I..’

‘Are you still confused? When did we become friends?’, and there is a cruel half-smile playing on Near’s lips, his lips curling up at the edges.

‘We didn’t. But I’m not going to sit there and watch you suffer’, Mello counters.

‘Isn’t it a little presumptuous for you to think you need to defend me Mello? That will clearly not have any effect on me if that’s what you want.’

Mello’s fist collides with the wall beside Near’s head.

‘Listen you _brat_. You don’t need my help right? I won’t help you. But don’t tell me I don’t need to speak out against this. What they’re doing is wrong, and I will break their bones every single time they dare to slander you like that. It’s not about you. It’s about what’s right and I’m doing it for myself. Does that satisfy you?’

Their faces are inches apart and it wouldn’t really be much of a bother to reach down and kiss Near’s lips.

‘You drive.’

* * *

 

  **Ivory-Then**

The cold had settled into the tips of his nose and ears and Near tries to warm it against the mug of hot chocolate held against his cheeks, the warmth chasing some of the numbness away as Martha cooes over him. Mello eyes are moving silently across the page of the book that rests against the table and Near goes back to arranging the sugar cubes according to the Fibonacci sequence, the cold draft from the cracked window panes of the shop leaving him shivering.

The music box Martha had dug out from her attic sits on the table in front of him, the tiny ballerina pirouetting gently and the soft, tinkling chimes of the music floats above them, outside the window, he can see the main square, the shop fronts decorated in red and green for Christmas.

Martha’s shop is the only one without the festive cheer.

Mello stomps his feet against the floor, trying to get some feeling back to his legs and his nose scrunches automatically at the smell of smoke that still hangs around the singed walls of the shop. The fire had ruined most of the walls, the wooden panels of the walls burned away to expose the brick interiors.

‘Finish your hot chocolate love. I have something to show you.’, Martha whispers kindly and Near sips on the rich concoction, the sweetness melting on his tongue, flooding him with warmth.

Martha fidgets with a small velvet box and places it in front of him.

‘This was my mama’s’, she settles into the chair next to Near’s, her wizened face breaking into a radiant smile. ‘She loved books too, like that one over there’ she says pointing at Mello and he snorts in response, not looking up from the book.

She unclasps the lid of the box with fumbling, ageing hands and inside rests a jewelled hairclip, set with stones and pearls and shaped like a butterfly, the light catches the facets, setting them aglow and it is the most beautiful thing Near has ever seen.

‘Go on, hold it’, Martha encourages him and Near reaches a tentative hand towards it, taking it out with fragile hands like it’d break if he isn’t careful.

Martha takes it from his hands, and reaches over to brush some of his hair back and pin it above his right ear.

‘She gave it to me when I was getting married. Ah! You look adorable with it love. It looks so pretty on you.’

Near flinches at the word and forces a smile. He can almost feel Mello’s gaze burn into the back of his skull.

‘A man can wear that, look pretty and still be a man Near. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise’, she rasps softly, taking Near’s chin in her hand and inspecting his profile.

* * *

 

**Onyx-Then**

It was snowing by the time they’d left Martha’s shop, promising to return soon after Christmas to help with the repairs. Martha’s bookshop was Mello’s favourite place in town and he spent most of his time there, working in his spare time and Martha had grown to love the boy as her won. Near had been a constant presence soon enough and the both of them would pore over cold cases wrapped up in shawls on Martha’s couch, sipping on tea and sometimes they’d play chess, without a board and pieces, just for the fun of it. Martha adored Near, fussing over them both. A week ago, her bookshop had been robbed and vandalized, set alame by some unknown assailant and Mello had tracked down the perpetrator within hours after getting to know about the crime.

 The walk back to the car was short but Near isn’t adequately dressed and was already on the verge of catching a cold. He doesn’t complain when Mello draped Martha’s spare coat around him.

They walk fast, passing two boys smoking and talking in hushed whispers, a bottle of beer in hand at the very back of the lane and their footsteps reverberate throughout the dark alley as they speed up their footsteps, reaching out to yank on Mello’s collar.

Mello ducks his head and someone beside him tackles Near to the ground.

Mello could barely concentrate on the punches that knock the breath from his lungs. He loses sight of Near and panic settles like a vice in his throat and his assailants use his distraction to pin him to the nearest wall and land punches after punches to his face till he’s sure his left eye will be swollen shut with bruises, blood pools in his mouth and suddenly, the attackers disperse.

Near has one of them pinned to the ground and he holds the jagged shards of the broken beer bottle from earlier at the man’s throat.

‘Let him go. Your carotid artery will slice open if I press in one more centimetre and you will bleed out in ten minutes.’

The other one let Mello go and scampers towards Near and Near presses the shard closer still.

‘You are friends with the culprit from the robbery and arson case aren’t you?’, Near enquires and the other man knocks the glass piece from his hand and flings him against the nearest wall, slapping Near on the face so hard, that his head snaps audibly to the side.

‘Jesus Christ Dave, wait! It’s a girl!’

The man who was advancing on Near stops on his tracks.

‘What??’

‘Fucking hell. I knew it! Damn pansy can’t land a proper punch. Fuck.’, the other man shoves Near down on the ground.

Mello is frozen in place, the blood from his forehead dripping down his face and the cold numbs the worst of the pain. He steadies himself against the walls, and Near’s eyes burn with that old fire when their eyes meet, and Mello holds his gaze for a second that says everything he’d wanted to hear.

The constables down at the Winchester are stunned when a call from the higher ups at the headquarters tips them off about the location of the absconding assailants in that robbery-arson case in the town square last week.

* * *

 

**Ivory-Now**

 The infirmary is dark and Mello’s hands are inches away from his where they rest against his bed.

‘You’re awake.’

Near hums in response, breathing softly and wincing when the pressure on his ribs twinges painfully.

‘So you didn’t need any help after all.’

Mello’s forehead is bandaged and his left eye is swollen shut, the soft peach glow of the bedside lights throwing his face in shadow.

‘I didn’t, and thank you for not trying to help me Mello.’

Near’s voice is quiet and it might just be the painkillers in his system lowering his inhibitions but the sincerity in his voice isn’t something that Mello can miss.

‘I was hoping you’d finally see just how bad I can be. I watched them kick your ass and I did nothing. I’m not good for you.’

Near laughs and his face settles into something warm, and Mello’s sapphire eyes are the salve to every ache in his body.

_Thank you for respecting my wish and letting me fight for myself. Thank you for having faith in me when no one else did._

Faint strains of music from Roger’s room echo through the house and Near can hear snatches of the lyrics. It’s another old song that he’s familiar with.

He had kept that memory locked away and it was like he’d almost lost the key.

Mello’s arm against his waist, their hands clasped together and Mello had taken the lead, twirling them softly through the room.

_“Wise men say, only fools rush in.”_

‘I wonder what anyone will think if they see us now’, he’d whispered against Mello’s shoulder.

‘Ssssh. Mind your feet, don’t stamp on mine.’

Roger was playing the song they’d heard and danced to in secret enough number of times for it to become theirs.

“ _For I can’t help falling in love with you.”_

Near smiles as Mello’s fingers intertwine with his.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Near is DFAB in the fic, genderfluid but identifies as male for most of the time in this fic and therefore 'he/him' pronouns have been used.  
> 2\. This fic takes place in an alternate universe where Kira doesn't exist and Near and Mello both live to graduate Wammy's House as L's successors. In this fic, Near is aged 17 and Mello 19, for sake of convenience.  
> 3\. That part where Near is stacking the sugar cubes according to the Fibonacci sequence is a straight rip off from L: Change the World. It was too adorable to resist!  
> 4\. This is my first attempt at writing a genderfluid character and I apologise in advance for any error that may have escaped my notice.


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